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The Mute Book.
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By the high road into the forest there stood
a solitary farm-house. Our way lay right through
the farm-yard; the sun shone; all the windows
were open; there was life and bustle within,
but in the yard, in an arbour of flowering
lilacs, there stood an open coffin. The corpse
had been placed out here, and it was to be
buried that forenoon. No one stood by and
wept over that dead man; no one hung sorrowfully
over him; his face was covered with a
white cloth, and under his head there lay a
large, thick book, every leaf of which was a
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